


Miles

by deanlosechester



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Just... kids, Kid!Derek, Kid!Stiles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanlosechester/pseuds/deanlosechester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek was five years old when he first met Stiles Stilinski.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miles

**Author's Note:**

> One of my first forays into Teen Wolf fanfiction. I occasionally post things on my tumblr (deanwinchestears)

Derek was five years old when he first met Stiles Stilinski.

The baby was a squealing, flailing mess, all round pudge and red cheeks. He looked up at Derek with happy eyes, like Derek was the most interesting person in the world and he was so happy to see him.

Mrs. Stilinski, his kindergarten teacher, sat on the couch with Derek’s mother. The two women were deep in conversation, sparing only a few moments to glance over at Derek and the baby to check on them. Derek watched them, for a moment—saw how happy his mother was to have a friend outside the family, saw the genuine kindness on his teacher’s face. It made him glad.

The baby, displeased with the lack of attention, made a loud squealing sound that made Derek’s head hurt. He turned to the little boy, angry, but softened when Stiles smiled and gurgled up at him. Stiles grabbed for Derek’s fingers, taking them and putting them in his mouth.

“That’s gross,” Derek said.

“ _Ugu_ ,” was the baby’s reply.

He laughed at the baby, poking him in his pudgy stomach and making faces at him. Stiles giggled, waving his arms and kicking his fat little legs.

The three-month-old smelled like cheerios and milk and a distinct smell that was like cinnamon and honey. He smelled like family.

He was the most beautiful thing Derek had ever seen.

Mrs. Stilinski got up to use the restroom, and Derek’s mother went to sit beside Derek on the floor. She reached down to smooth back the fine hairs on baby Stiles’ head. He cooed.

“He doesn’t smell like a wolf,” Derek said to his mother.

“That’s because he isn’t one.”

Derek’s brow furrowed. “How’s he gonna protect himself?”

Mrs. Hale laughed. “Well,” she said, curling an arm around him, “it’s up to someone like you to make sure he stays safe.”

Later, before they left the Stilinski home, Derek leaned down to kiss the sleeping baby’s forehead.

“Don’t worry,” Derek whispered. “I’ll protect you always.”

^

When Derek was eight, and Stiles was three, Stiles went missing.

Derek was at the mall with his sister and his eldest brother—they were trying to pick out a birthday gift for their father.

Amidst the loud chatter of the mall crowd, he could hear a familiar voice crying out.

“Excuse me? I can’t find my son! Stiles? Genim!”

He found Mrs. Stilinski by the children’s play center, tears in her eyes, her heart beating frantically in her chest. When she saw Derek, she looked relieved.

“Oh! Derek, honey, can you help me find Stiles? He’s gone—missing—and I can’t find him anywhere, he was just here and I turned to answer the phone and when I looked up he was gone—”

Derek, eight years old and not completely in control of his own body, felt a growl before it sounded and swallowed it down. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Stilinski. I’ll find him.”

He left Mrs. Stilinski and ran into the crowd; looking, listening, sniffing for that cinnamon and honey scent.

After a few moments, he caught it.

He followed the trail to the fountain where he found Stiles holding hands with an unfamiliar man. The man smelled like _predator_. Like _enemy_. It made Derek sick. Made the young wolf inside of him snap its jaws.

“Stiles!” Derek yelled, reaching out and taking Stiles’ free hand. He tugged the three-year-old to him, glaring up at the stranger. “Thank you for finding my brother, mister.”

The stranger laughed; a low, menacing sound that made Derek uneasy. “That’s funny. My little buddy here told me he doesn’t have any brothers.” He crouched down in front of Derek and Stiles, leering at them. “I was going to take him to the security center. Why don’t you both come with me and we can sort this out?”

Every cell in Derek’s body was screaming _NO NO DANGER GET AWAY GET OUT TAKE STILES PROTECT STILES GO_ but Derek couldn’t seem to move.

A hand on his shoulder and a deep, familiar voice saved him.

“Derek,” Sheriff Stilinski said, squeezing his shoulder. “Thank you for finding my boy.”

Derek could smell the terror on the man as he looked wide-eyed at the Sheriff. Mr. Stilinski cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes at the man.

“I think,” he began, “that you should leave. Now.”

Derek had never seen someone run that fast before.

The Stilinskis bought Derek and his siblings ice cream as a reward for finding Stiles, who seemed completely unaffected by the situation and was more interested in chattering almost incoherently to Derek about his favorite dinosaur, the “teg-saurus.”

When Stiles’ parents told Derek’s mother what happened, he got extra helpings of macaroni with supper, along with a long talk about not going anywhere with strangers.

That night, Derek had nightmares of an empty space where Stiles used to be. He slept with his parents.

^

Stiles was seven when he broke his arm.

Derek heard his scream from down the street where he was playing lacrosse with some friends; it was a sharp, surprised cry that put his senses on edge and had him in Stiles’ backyard within seconds.

Stiles was curled up on the ground cradling his arm, tears running down his face. Derek could smell the blood and pain, could see a wave of _hurt_ coming from Stiles. He wondered, briefly, where Mrs. Stilinski was, before he heard the loud noise of the vacuum cleaner. He knelt down beside the boy, reaching out for his arm.

“Let me see,” Derek said, pulling Stiles’ arm gently away from his chest when Stiles nodded.

It was twisted, broken, and bloody, a piece of bone jutting out of the skin where it had snapped. When he touched the area around it, Stiles cried out.

“It hurts!” Stiles cried, curling into Derek.

He didn’t want Stiles to hurt.

So he broke the rules.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, and leaned down to press his lips gently against Stiles’ arm. A spark of pain shot through him, and then it was gone, and he felt Stiles relax as the pain was numbed.

A few hours later, Derek sat in the hospital waiting room while Mrs. Stilinski stayed with Stiles. He listened to the doctor tell Stiles that he was lucky Derek found him, or he could have been seriously injured.

Stiles said Derek was his hero.

When they left the room, Stiles was sporting a bright red cast on his right arm. He ran up to Derek, presenting his arm to him and grinning.

“Look!” he said, all but crawling onto Derek’s lap. “They said I could have red or green, and I picked red, because it’s my favorite color. And Iron Man is red. He’s your favorite superhero!”

Derek smiled. “Yeah, he is. That’s really cool, Stiles.”

Before Derek got out of the car in front of his house a short while later, Mrs. Stilinski grabbed his arm. “I don’t know how you heard him, but… thank you. You always seem to be around when he needs someone the most.”

Derek smiled sheepishly. “It’s nothin’, Mrs. Stilinski. I was just down the street.”

“He really looks up to you,” she said, looking to Stiles, sleeping in the backseat. “You’re the closest thing he has to a brother. He needs someone like you to look after him.”

Derek Hale, twelve years old and far too young to understand most things, looked at the sleeping boy in the backseat of Mrs. Stilinski’s jeep and knew, without a doubt, that he would always be there when Stiles needed him most.

Too many years had passed when Derek realized how many times he’d broken that promise.

^

Derek was sixteen when he met Kate Argent.

She was beautiful and deadly, and when he smelled her, he smelled danger and excitement mixed with lilacs and fire. When he fucked her, he felt powerful.

When it was finished, she kicked him out, leaving him with nothing more than a “thanks, babe. That was great.” It made him feel sick and lonely, but he kept going back to her.

He’d go home and Stiles would be on his porch, a pile of comic books on his lap. When he saw Derek, he’d smile, calling out his name.

Derek would humor him for a moment before telling him he was tired and wanted to sleep.

The third time he came home to find Stiles on his porch, he ignored the boy.

“Come on, Derek!” Stiles whined, a sad, desperate look on his face. “Scott had to go out of town and dad’s working and my mom doesn’t feel good.”

“Go home, Stiles,” Derek replied. He was too old to hang out with an eleven-year-old anyway.

“But—” he began, before Derek cut him off.

“Look,” Derek said, turning to glare at the younger boy, “I don’t want to hang out with you. I don’t want to play video games, or talk about comic books, or play in the woods. I want to go inside and read a book. Alone. So go home. We’re not friends. You’re just an annoying boy who won’t seem to leave me alone.”

He felt Stiles’ heart stop for a moment before he turned back to the door, gripping the handle tight enough to warp the metal. He heard Stiles sniff, and he walked into the house, shutting the door behind him. He listened as Stiles stood outside for a few moments more, then stomped to his room and slammed the door.

Stiles didn’t come back after that.

^

A month later, Derek’s life burned to the ground.

When Sheriff Stilinski pulled him out of tutoring, he could see the worry on his face, could see how badly the Sheriff didn’t want to tell him what had happened.

“There’s been an accident,” he said. He smelled like smoke and death.

And lilacs.

He didn’t cry when they took him to the house. Didn’t cry when he saw them carting away what was left of his family. Didn’t cry when Laura did. Didn’t cry when he saw what was left of his bedroom—his books and lacrosse gear and his clothes and bed—and what was left of his home.

He didn’t cry on the way to the police station, or while he was sitting in a chair in the sheriff’s office. He didn’t cry when Mrs. Stilinski brought him some soup and a blanket.

When eleven-year-old Stiles, who he hadn’t seen in over a month—who he’d turned away, abandoned, left alone when he had no one else—handed him his favorite Iron Man comic book, he broke.

Stiles, for once, was quiet as Derek cried, wrapping his skinny arms around Derek’s neck and holding on tight, rubbing his back the way Derek had seen Mrs. Stilinski do to him. His shoulders shook, and after a while, the sobs became nothing but empty, open-mouthed breaths. Tears blurred his vision and soaked Stiles’ shirt as they fell.

“I’m so sorry,” he heard Stiles whisper into his ear. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t have anything left,” Derek replied, sitting up and wiping his eyes with shaking hands. “I’ve got nothing but Laura now.”

Stiles adjusted his shirt and grabbed a tissue from the sheriff’s desk, handing it to Derek. “Nah,” he began. “You’ve got me.”

Derek thought about the past eleven years of his life; thought about the nights that he spent unable to sleep out of worry that Stiles was hurt somewhere, thought about the visits to the hospital after Stiles broke a bone, thought about breaking that Whittemore kid’s neck after he beat up Stiles in the playground.

Derek thought about the smell of smoke and lilacs and fire and how it would be Stiles, next.

Three days after that, Derek was gone.

He didn’t say goodbye to Stiles.

^

He’d been in New York for two years when Laura walked into his room, phone in her hand and tears in her eyes, and told him that Mrs. Stilinski had died.

He felt more than heard Laura leave the apartment a few moments later, and the minute he knew she was out of earshot, Derek Hale cried for the first time in two years.

When Laura returned to the apartment, Derek was on the couch, a photo album on the coffee table. Laura leaned over his shoulder to peer at the pictures—all of Derek and Stiles growing up—in front of him, resting her head on top of Derek’s and squeezing his shoulder.

“I remember that,” she said, pointing to a picture of nine-year-old Derek throwing a baseball to then four-year-old Stiles, who had a plastic yellow bat in his hands. “He accidentally hit you with the bat.”

Derek laughed. “Yeah, and then hit himself in the face when he was flailing and apologizing.”

Laura chuckled, hopping over the back of the couch and curling up next to him. They flipped through the photo album together, laughing at the memories, stopping at a picture of Derek at five years old, holding up a hand turkey he’d made in Mrs. Stilinski’s class. Mrs. Stilinski stood next to him with a turkey of her own. They were both smiling.

“She gave me this, before we left,” Derek said, digging his fingers into the photo album. “She said I’d always have a home in Beacon Hills.”

“She was a good woman,” Laura said. Derek agreed.

The next morning, they ordered the nicest bouquet of lilies they could find.

They did not go to the funeral.

^

Laura had been gone for a week before Derek decided it was time to go find her.

Returning to Beacon Hills wasn’t easy; it held far too many reminders of what he’d lost, what he’d walked away from. But his sister was due back two days prior, so he had to find out.

He arrived at Beacon Hills at around midnight. He drove through the streets of the town, looking at the darkened windows and closed storefronts. The grocery store. The pharmacy. The diner his mother used to take him to when he did well on a test.  
Stiles’ street.

He parked across the street from the Stilinski house, rolling down the driver’s side window and looking up at what could only be Stiles’ room. It was the only room with a light on.

He listened closely for him, hearing Stiles mumbling to himself, hearing the _tap-tap-tap_ of his fingers on a keyboard, hearing the music coming from his computer’s speakers. He sang along for a few seconds, more a breath of lyrics than actual song, and cursed at something. 

Derek wondered, briefly, what Stiles looked like now—whether he had long hair, short hair, or something in between. Whether he’d filled out or was still scrawny like he was when he last saw him. Whether he looked the same at all, or looked completely different.  
He shook his head, willing the thoughts somewhere else, and buckled his seatbelt. He felt stupid for sitting outside of Stiles’ house like that. He felt like a predator; maybe he was.

He drove towards the Hale house, but it smelled like fire and death and bad memories. He drove to the town’s hotel instead. Once inside his hotel room, he flopped onto the bed, sighing and crossing his arms behind his head. He tried to call Laura’s cell phone again, only to receive no answer. 

Thinking back on it, he should have known she was dead.

^

“That’s Derek Hale—you remember, right? He’s only a few years older than us…”

He’d walked away from Stiles and his friend by then, fists clenched tight at his sides. 

Not “That’s Derek Hale, an old family friend.”

Not “That’s Derek Hale, my friend.”

Not “That’s Derek Hale, he’s saved my ass too many times to count.”

Just “Derek Hale.”

And he was alone.

^

He stayed in Beacon Hills.

His uncle Peter had killed Laura. Stiles’ friend Scott was a werewolf. Scott’s girlfriend was part of a family of hunters. Derek was the alpha with a few pack members (all of whom seemed to disobey him every chance they could get).

Throughout the entire year, Stiles still avoided him as much as he could, and no matter how many times Derek tried to talk to him—sneaking into his room, slamming him against the wall when Stiles wouldn’t stop to listen to him—he couldn’t seem to get the words out.

After a while, he stopped trying.

^

Slowly, though, things started to look up.

Stiles started to talk to him, more, and even smile occasionally. They started to trust each other. Stiles would buy healthier food for the pack, and, on the weekends, he’d show up early in the morning and help Derek rebuild the house.

By the end of the summer, the house was as good as new, and everyone had their own room. It was nice.

Derek, for the first time in a long time, was happy.

^

Stiles was eighteen when he had the accident.

He was in his Jeep, following Derek to the house for a pack meeting after hitting up the grocery store for food. He was crossing the intersection when a car ran a red light and smashed into the drivers’ side door. The car spun out, the front end hitting the median and halting abruptly.

Derek didn’t remember pulling his car over. He didn’t remember ripping the seatbelt in his attempt to get out. He didn’t remember running (too quickly) to the Jeep.

He did remember hearing Stiles’ cries of pain and fear as he spun out, and then silence; he remembered grabbing the door and wrenching it open, pulling a piece of the door that had jammed itself into Stiles’ leg out in the process. He remembered seeing Stiles slumping down against the steering wheel and being afraid, for one terrifyingly human moment that he was dead. But beneath the roar of his own heart he heard Stiles’ heartbeat; slow and faint, but there.

He didn’t move Stiles out of fear of hurting him more, but he tried to wake him up, placing his hands on either side of Stiles’ face and yelling his name.

“Stiles? STILES. Wake up, Stiles, please, come on. Please wake up, Stiles, please, oh my god.” He pulled out his cell phone to call the police.

“Beacon Hills police department, what is your emergency?”

“Call Sheriff Stilinski, there’s been an accident, Stiles is hurt—we’re on the highway just past the grocery store. Stiles is hurt. Send help, oh my god, please—”

He hung up, ignoring the words of the dispatcher, turning his attention once again to Stiles. There was blood running down his temple, his left arm was bruised and bent a little strangely, and he knew without even having to check that his leg was broken.

Stiles’ eyes fluttered and he looked blearily at Derek. “D…” he began, but Derek put his finger over Stiles’ mouth, quieting him.

“Shh, Stiles, it’s okay. Your dad’s on his way. Just stay with me, okay? Stay awake.”

Stiles tried to nod, but winced, closing his eyes to go back to sleep. Derek smacked his cheek lightly. “No. Stiles, look at me. You have to stay awake.”

“I c’n do that,” Stiles whispered, cracking a weak smile and looking as well as he could into Derek’s eyes.

Derek kept eye contact with Stiles the entire time that they spent waiting for the ambulance. Sheriff Stilinski arrived with them, bolting out of the car and arriving quickly at Stiles’ side, pushing Derek out of the way.

“Shit, Stiles, what happened?” he said anxiously, reaching out to touch Stiles but stopping short, afraid to hurt him.

“Car ran a red light,” Derek answered for him. “Ran into him.”

“D’rek saved me,” Stiles mumbled, trying to smile at Derek. The Sheriff nodded once to Derek and returned his attention to his son, stepping aside when the paramedics arrived to carefully extract him from the car and get him on a stretcher.

Both Sheriff Stilinski and Derek tried to get in the ambulance with Stiles. They looked at each other before Derek stepped to the side, nodding at the Sheriff.

“Go tell the others what happened,” the Sheriff said. “I’ll call and let you know what’s going on.”

^

Stiles had broken his leg in three places, fractured his arm, bruised two ribs, and had a mild concussion. The doctor said he’d be okay, but not without some physical therapy for his leg.

The whole pack went to visit him in the hospital, bringing him balloons, cards, and candy. Derek, however, did not go with them—he wanted to see Stiles, but he wanted to be alone.

When Derek finally got to go visit Stiles, he was asleep in his bed, good hand curled around a stuffed wolf that Allison had brought for him. Derek smelled the strange clean smell of hospitals—the metal, the medicines, the sickness—and that cinnamon and honey smell that was distinctly Stiles.

Taking a seat next to Stiles’ bed, Derek tried as hard as he could not to look at his injuries, adjusting the blanket around Stiles instead. It was an oddly domestic gesture, and Derek started to wonder when he let Stiles back in; wondered exactly how this insanely talkative, annoying boy wormed his way back into his heard after he’d worked so hard to shut him out.

^

“Derek, wake up.”

Derek shot up, panicked, forgetting for a moment where he was before seeing Stiles and remembering. Car accident. Hospital. Right.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Stiles interrupted him.

“You were having a nightmare,” he said, eyes worried. “You—you said my name. And that you were sorry.”

Derek frowned. He remembered the dream—a stranger, taking Stiles away. Smelling lilacs and fire. That same empty place where Stiles had always been, made emptier in Derek’s absence. Saying he was sorry to Stiles, over and over again for leaving and not being there to protect him.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked softly, reaching out with his good arm before stopping himself and curling his hand into his lap.  
Derek shook his head. “No.”

“Are you gonna tell me what’s wrong, or am I going to just have to accept it like I always do?” he asked, angry.

“Stiles—”

“No,” Stiles began, holding his hand up to stop him. “No. Look, I get it, you’re the big bad Alpha and everyone has to answer to you, but me? I’m not one of your Betas. I don’t have to do what you say. So I want you to tell me.”

Derek swallowed the lump in his throat, but didn’t speak. 

Derek wasn’t a stupid man, and it wasn’t that he hated talking—he just had trouble finding the right words to say what was needed. And in the silence that followed, with Stiles staring at Derek, expecting answers, Derek couldn’t find the words to give them to him.

^

By late December—two weeks before Stiles’ nineteenth birthday— Stiles was on his last leg of physical therapy and, in the words of the doctor, doing “exceedingly well.” When the Sheriff couldn’t take Stiles to his physical therapy, one of the pack would take him, but the job usually fell to Derek or Scott. They would watch him do leg exercises and aquatic therapy every other day; Scott was always there, cheering him on. Derek would sit silently and calculate every bit of strength in Stiles’ body.

Stiles was a lot stronger than anyone gave him credit for—and because of this, became very stubborn when people tried to help him. The only thing he would let Scott do for him was take him to get Christmas presents for the pack, and Allison’s efforts to help him cook supper for his father were turned away with a curt “I can do it myself, Allison, thank you.”

They let him do what he could, for the most part, but there were some things that they had to help him with despite his protests. Lifting heavy objects, walking through the grocery store (when they couldn’t talk him into riding in a cart), and getting up the stairs usually required some assistance. But by December 23, just the day before Christmas Eve, Stiles could do most of these by himself with very little discomfort.

Stiles had spent the day in the kitchen, making food for the pack’s Christmas party the next day. He allowed Scott and Isaac to help him, occasionally, but did most of the cooking himself—it was the first day he didn’t need to use a cane or crutches, and he wanted to do it on his own. Derek sat on the Stilinski’s couch and watched Stiles bustle around the kitchen, taking a few moments every now and then to lean against the kitchen table and catch his breath or take pain medication. Derek was proud of him—more than he could ever say. When he tried, later that night after Scott and Isaac had fallen asleep on the living room floor, Stiles just laughed.

“Do you remember when I was little, and we were obsessed with Iron Man?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Derek replied, smiling. “You said you were going to make yourself an arc reactor.”

They laughed for a few moments before lapsing into silence. After a while, Derek heard Stiles whisper, “When mom was sick, I told her I was going to build her one. And I did. I took my old night light and turned it into an arc reactor and took it to her. She loved it. We buried it with her.”

“Stiles,” Derek began, but Stiles just smiled and held up a hand.

“If there’s anything I’ve learned,” he said, “it’s that I don’t need to be a superhero. You know, as lame and cheesy as it sounds… I’ve got them here. Scott, my dad, Lydia… And you.”

Derek left the house without saying anything.

He had something to do.

^

The next day, Derek learned something new about Stiles:

He was obsessed with Christmas.

There were presents covering almost every inch of his living room. Boxes and bags of green and red and gold littered his house; he was fairly certain there was glitter in his hair and on his couch (which would never come off, he just knew it). But despite the trash that Derek knew he would spend hours cleaning up later, he didn’t mind. He loved Christmas, too, and seeing how happy the pack was—seeing how happy _Stiles_ was—made the future cleanup a little easier.

 _God, I’m turning into a Lifetime movie_ , Derek thought.

A few hours into the party the Secret Santa gifts began going out. Derek got Boyd a new jacket. Boyd had given Peter a book. Peter got Jackson a certificate to get his car fixed up, and Jackson had given Isaac a new lacrosse stick. Isaac had drawn Allison, and had given her a brand new quiver full of arrows. Allison bought Lydia new lipstick. Lydia didn’t bring a gift for Erica, but told her that once the stores opened and the deals started she would take her shopping and buy her whatever she wanted. Erica gave Scott a Batman t-shirt—and a Robin shirt for Stiles. To Stiles, Scott gave two tickets to Universal Studios.

“Mom and the Sheriff said we could go for Spring Break!” he said, beaming.

Stiles was so ecstatic he almost fell on his way to give Scott a hug. Catching himself, he walked slowly to a bag marked “Derek” under the tree. He handed it to Derek, a smirk on his face, and waited.

Derek reached into the bag and pulled out…a leather stocking.

Stiles laughed before anyone else, clutching his sides and wiping away tears. “I’m so—I’m so sorry, oh my god, I just couldn’t resist, I found it online and—I couldn’t stop—oh my GOD—”

Derek couldn’t help but laugh with them, shaking his head and reaching into the stuffed stocking to pull out all of his favorite candies—Hershey bars, Milk Duds, Reese’s Cups—and a few other small items. A bookmark in the shape of the Camaro, because Stiles hated that Derek dog-eared his books (“Even though it’s appropriate.”). A small paperback of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , Derek’s favorite book. A chocolate frog from Harry Potter—the card inside was of Severus Snape. And in the very bottom, a hand turkey with Derek’s name on it, with a picture of Derek and Stiles’ mothers.

He didn’t pull those out for everyone to see; it wasn’t a Hallmark moment, but he didn’t want to share that with everyone in the room. This was something Stiles had given to him alone, and he wanted to keep it that way.

He thanked Stiles and they continued to open presents, stopping to watch A Year Without A Santa Claus. After a while, everyone went to sleep, eagerly awaiting the next morning—the Sheriff was going to make them pancakes. 

^

Derek couldn’t sleep.

  
He reached under his bed, pulled out a small wrapped package, and got out of bed. He started towards Stiles’ room, intending to wake him to give him his gift, but a noise from the living room—followed by the smell of cinnamon and honey—led him to the couch where Stiles sat, watching TV.

“Hey,” Derek said, sitting next to him, keeping the gift out of Stiles’ line of sight.

“Can’t sleep?” Stiles asked.

“I was actually, uh. I was looking for you. I got you something.” He held out the package, resolutely _not_ looking Stiles in the eye.

“Couldn’t it wait until the morning? I mean, this is nice, but—”

“No,” Derek said, interrupting him. “It, uh, it can’t wait. Besides, it’s not really a present, it’s more like… I’m returning something.”  
Stiles’ brows furrowed in confusion, but he smiled, turning to the package and gently pulling the paper apart. Derek stared at the fireplace, hands fidgeting in his lap, freezing when he heard Stiles’ breath stop.

“Derek,” Stiles whispered, and Derek turned to see him staring with wide eyes, hands clutched tightly around an old _Iron Man_ comic.

“This—this is—”

“Yeah,” he said, finally meeting Stiles’ eyes. “It’s the same one.”

Stiles smiled, tilting his head. “You kept it?”

“Of course I did,” Derek said, shrugging—but smiling all the same. “It was important.”

Stiles sat the comic down on the coffee table with extreme care before throwing the wrapping paper off the couch and launching himself at Derek, grabbing his hair and pulling him in to kiss him.

“Merry Christmas,” Derek murmured against Stiles’ lips.

^

Derek was eighty-four when he died. Stiles followed him three months later, just after his eightieth birthday.

Before he died, he’d held his eldest daughter’s hand and smiled at her as she read him his favorite Robert Frost poem. It reminded him of Derek, he said.

After he died, Laura and Stella buried their Papa next to their Daddy in a grave on the Hale property, with the grave of the Sheriff on the other side.

Derek and Stiles’ grave marker was a statue of a giant grey wolf, howling into the air. The inscription was simple; just their names and dates. Under their names read Stiles’ favorite poem.

  
_The woods are lovely, dark and deep._   
_But I have promises to keep._   
_And miles to go before I sleep._   


**Author's Note:**

> People are getting upset about their deaths in the end; I'm not going to use a warning for it because not only is it not a major plot point, it happens as an end note and they lived happily ever after. No one had cancer, they just got old, and they died, it happens to everyone and if I'd have had them get SICK and die, yeah, I'd have warned for it. We're all big kids here and if it bothers you, don't read it. Besides; you already got to the end. Just move on.


End file.
